Memory Poison
by Checkered Square
Summary: Sam recalls death in the face of a secret from the Stanford years and Dean sees himself in the innocent little brother he used to know. (I would love reviews, constructive criticism welcome, Thanks!) Disclaimer: I do not own supernatural or any of its characters
1. Chapter 1

**Memory Poison**

"Now we're talking!" Dean exclaimed banging his fists on the table. It had been a long few weeks since, well there really was no explanation. After all their whole life was Russian Roulette. Shrugging he pushed the chair back and downed a beer. At least he could tease Sam and shut him up about not helping with the research. I mean, come on, even a monkey could do it. Dean faltered in the library doorway, did he just call himself a monkey. No way and no matter. Echoes filled the corridor as he shot down the length shouting out, "Sammy! Sammy ya home!" Knocking he flung open the door grinning like an idiot only to be shocked black as pitch.

Dang did it stink! Cloths were flung haphazardly about nestled between empty wrappers. On the shagged carpet back against the olive wall staring sunken at the void. Sam's posture was all defeat his eyes numb and hands clinging to a beer. Five empties lie shattered on the carpet at his right side. Dean curled his fingers around the door frame taking a tentative step forward, "Sammy? What is wrong? Are you hurt? Did something…" Sam's eyes whipped around freezing him in his tracks. The depth of sorrow in them was frighteningly consuming.

"Get out Dean, now." Iron slicked words and white knuckles sent a message. Dean reached out a gentle hand aiming for the bangs which covered his emotionless eyes. Boney fingers gripped his wrist and threw him back while hopeless eyes glared him down. Dean scooted out of the way as Sam stood to his full height a tree of hopeless fury, "I told you to get the hell out Dean!" Yelping Dean scrambled and stood on the other side as Sam's beer shattered on the threshold.

"What is the matter with you! Come on…I am just trying to help you!"

Sam laughed while sliding down the wall tears cascading down his face, "You help me? The screwup little brother?"

"We have both made mistakes, but your my brother Sam I will always be here to help you. So, stop being a petulant child!" Glaring Dean waited for a response arms crossed.

Sam's shoulders slumped as all the fight left him, "A child? I was never a child Dean." Disgust was clear in his voice, "Do you know which day it is Dean?"

Confused Dean raised an eyebrow, "No…"

"It's Charlie's death day." Sam pulled out a small book with dark blue binding.

Dean's jaw hit the floor pity covering it, "Sam, that is not something to dwell on."

Chuckling Sam continued, "Everyone's is in this book including yours, Bobby's, Charlie's, Jo's, and Ellen's. They are my failures and on their death's I… I wish I could join them." At this point Sam sobbed, "It is all my fault and I know you hold them against me. Charlie's hurts the worst I still remember every detail."

Shocked Dean went to speak then Sam threw a hand up, "Do not try and wriggle in on this. Do you remember what you said that night at Charlie's pyre?"

The pain in Sam's voice hurt and with horror he remembered, "Oh, Sam I… I never meant those words!" Horrified Dean tried to continue.

Sam's bitter chuckle cut him off, "I wish it was you up there, not her. Seemed like you meant it to me and turns out you were right." Sam stared dejectedly at the carpet knees pulled up to his chest sobbing brokenly, "Can you take them back?" Puppy dog eyes stared up at Dean begging for something to ease the pain. The pain alcohol could not numb.

Dean hesitated unsure at the reminder of all the lost lives. Crestfallen Sam looked down at the shattered glass and Dean retreated down the hallway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Truth Serum**

Dean found himself in the garage, with nothing to work on. What had he done? Should he have said something different or just remained silent? Wringing his hands together he thought about Sam confused by his behavior. Sam had never done this before. Sure, he had gotten drunk, but never this depressingly so. What in the blue blazes was he supposed to do? He knew it was foolish to hold anything over Sam's head. Charlie had made her choices and Sam never could have dissuaded her anyway. The bench was red and plushy as he settled onto it rubbing a hand through his hair. Shuddering he knew a bridge might be broken forever. His eyes roamed the cars taking in everything like he never had before. Sometimes Dean swore he could taste the spirits that lingered in the bunker waiting patiently for their time. So much history in one place its no wonder Sam was constantly daydreaming.

He had always though the stalls were funny with their blue paint and red rails. He picked restlessly at the paint admiring the lime green and red automobiles. Both never failed to make him smile. No doubt some hot shot Man of Letters decided on something a bit flashier. Laughing he headed to the work bench noticed a lose bolt on one of the motorcycle seats. The one with the tin man's head, dang their life was strange. Mournfully Dean rummaged in the green cars truck for a blanket. Finding one he curled up in the back seat of the Impala. In a few hours Sam would get over his hangover and everything would be fine. No doubt he would remember nothing of what Dean should have said.

Closing his eyes Dean felt as if he lifted above, and found himself at that RV park. The one where years ago he had told Sam he could no longer trust him, and Sam had grabbed his bag and left. However, Sam had looked back but Dean had looked away so Sam hitched a ride and was gone. It looked the same with the lapping water except nobody else was there just - Sam? He sat at the picknick table brown hair dangling in his face laptop resting closed beside his left elbow. A radio played music at the end of the table and to Sam's right elbow a red cooler sat. Sam's backpack lay haphazardly on the bench his books spilling out. He was concentrating on a sketch pad. Sam could draw? Dean perked his ears at the country music, and Sam looked up eyes grinning.

"Dean! Come take a seat! Want a beer?" Opening the cooler Sam pulled one out, already dripping condensation in the sun, and set it on the other side of the bench. As Dean felt the ruff wood beneath him and wrapped his hand around the cool bottle fog settled- Suddenly he was staring at a burning pile of wood with Sam in the midst of it. He opened his mouth to cry out only to find he was mute. Tossing and turning Dean scrambled awake banging his head on the window.

Cursing everything under the sun Dean rubbed his head scrambling out the car while angrily slamming the door. For a moment all he could do was stand there shakily the picture branded into his brain. He shouldn't be reacting this way, but why was he concerned that he was? He had seen Sam die before and it was only a dream… covering his mouth Dean stifled a sob before fighting to collect himself. Folding the blanket, he headed back to Sam's room overtaken by the need to see him. At first walking seemed fine until that image flashed in his head once more and growling he ran down the hallway. Echoes chasing him all the way until Sam's door came into view. Flinging open the door he cried, "Rise and Shine Sammy I found a case!" Grinning like a fool he realized the room was cold and empty. Beer bottles from the night before still sat haphazardly on the floor and the shards of one still sat by the door frame. Tentatively, as if Sam was merely playing hide and seek, Dean entered, "Sammy?" No answer, but there was a note on the mirror. Dean picked it up too shocked to quite get it…

 _Dear Dean,_

 _I needed to get some air after last night. I am not sure when I will be back, there are some places I want to see, but do not worry about me. DO NOT GO ON A HUNT ALONE! I noticed you slept in the garage last night- make sure you rub out the kinks in your neck- there is a hot pad on your bed. Also, I got a call from an old friend that I am going to take. Anyway, enjoy some space._

 _Sam_

Note clenched tight in hand Dean stumbled back to his room. In a haze he packed a bag, second nature by now, and dialed Sam's number. It rang and rang and rang, but only his voicemail answered. Collecting himself he shoved the phone in his pocket and slung the bag over his shoulder. Who was this friend Sam was seeing? What could Dean say to bring him home and why did he not just reassure him last night? What if he was hurt? Whenever they separated one of them always ended up seriously injured. He paused outside the first aid closet grabbing more patching supplies. Thoughts swirled as Dean walked stone faced down the hall toward the garage. He had to bring Sam home, but did he have that right anymore?


	3. Chapter 3

**Stemming the Infection**

When Sam woke with a pounding headache to shattered beer bottles he knew exactly what had took place the night before. Head in hands he cursed himself for not locking the door, for not foreseeing Dean's cheerful entrance. He stood slowly waiting till the world was done tilting before cleaning up and popping a few ibuprofens. It was surprising that Dean had not attempted to find him yet, but as his hands brushed the little notebook a part of him wondered if he even wanted Dean to try. He chuckled to himself. Here they were again with the same old load of bull crap. Sam could feel the guilt jerking his insides crawling up his optic nerves. Dam. Would he never be able to just suck it up? Slipping the book in his pocket he headed to Deans room. After last night Dean would either be there, in the garage, or running. Although the running was generally his department. Gently he knocked and opened the door, no Dean. He closed it and walked slowly toward the garage dreading the words to be exchanged later. He didn't think he could do it this time around. He was so tired of the cycle. Quiet as a mouse Sam treaded up the steps smiling at the hot shot cars. Striding over to the Impala he grinned at Dean asleep in the seats. He looks so calm and peaceful as if his life was not a total crap shoot. Sam decided to let him be, and wandered back to his room. A dull empty ringing met him only a few steps from his room. Confused he hurried inside scrambled under the bed and put the phone to his ear, "Hello?"

A scratchy voice answered, "Sam? Its Stephan Porter. I… I need your help… somethings wrong."

"Porter? How..."

"You gave me the number years ago, and I only remembered the other day…" at this point the voice shook a bit, "please, Sam, you are my only hope."

To say Sam was surprised was an understatement. How did Porter have his number? Yeah, he had given it to him all those years ago but to call now? After all the years? A little shook up Sam practically whispered, "What's wrong Porter?"

"I live in Thief River Falls, Minnesota now Sam. Please come, fast as you can, before its too late. No need to worry about finding me… I will know where you are."

"Now wait a min…" with a click the connection ended, and Sam growled in frustration.

Dean, he needed to get Dean. This call was just too odd and his gut ordered him that something was defiantly off about this. Crunch, Sam looked down taking in the broken glass and beer stain on the carpet. He paused, maybe it would be best to handle this alone and just give Dean his space. Besides he could go in prepared and odds are he would be fine alone for one hunt. Besides, Porter was history Sam really did not need Dean to know about. Sighing Sam turned back to the rooms interior and started packing a bag. He would not be able to take a car from the garage without waking Dean. He would have to start walking and either hitch hike or hotwire a car. Hastily scribbling a note designed to hopefully stem the tide he snuck up to the garage grabbing gear from the Impalas trunk. For once Sam knew he had to believe he was strong enough- that he could manage on his own. Geared up he stood at the bunker door looking once more at the table and smiling. When he came back Dean was going to kill him, but at least he would get his space.

Sam whipped out his phone and pressed a button, "Dean, if this is you calling me, try not to worry" hopefully Dean would get the hint when he heard the new leave a message tone. He would most likely grumble since he never stopped worrying about his little brother, and Sam was well aware the fact. At times he was too aware especially when Dean was more in need than himself.

Sam stepped out already feeling the chill winter air as the door swung shut with a resounding clang. In the bunker it echoed like a death toll, but Dean slept on.


	4. Chapter 4

**Drastic Measures**

Finding a car to hotwire had been the easy part, facing Porter would be the hard part. After trudging through the cold Sam had settled on a decent looking 2002 Ford Rancher left all alone in Rusty Tin Inn. Fiddling with the heat knob Sam decided that some people needed to work on their business naming skills. Sam let out a sign of relief as the heat kicked on, and began throwing trash into a plastic bag and depositing it in the rusted trashcan outside room 227. The Ranger was a grey with white and red stirpes. A combination Sam was actually quite pleased with. As the doors closed he rolled the windows down despite the cold deciding he would rather chill a little longer than deal with the lose of his senses. Taking a breath Sam turned onto the highway, hand out the window, radio on FM country, bathed in the glow of a setting sun. He chuckled to himself at the freedom he felt knowing it would not last long. As he hit his grove Sam's mind drifted back to the first time he met Porter…

He had just left Stanford hitching rides and hopping on the greyhound bus having decided to find Dean and Dad. Finals had been particularly bad and support was no where in sight. In fact, he felt as if he was suffocating and knew the only one who could save him was Dean. So, on the spur of the moment he made the choice to hunt them down and beg on his knees to be able to come home. Yeah, school had not been going well at the time. Jess still had not angelically stepped into his life. Too many nights of crying alone had finally lost their luster. Therefore, he ended up sitting at a two-bit gas station in the middle of nowhere twenty bucks to his name having no clue what to do next.

A cracked sign above the gas station declared 'Cordova Rampart Petrol'. Cordova Rampart? What kind of name was that? Straightening his very rumpled jacket Sam took a look around. He was clearly on main street which consisted of the gas station, bar, inn, and a few little shops - looking worse for the ware. A few streets marched off lined with small clapboard houses, almost like a trailer park. Carefully maintained flower pots adorned every available corner, and a stained grain elevator rose toward the sky only a few blocks in front. Most of the 'towns' population must live outside in the country.

First, he needed to get more cash, and hustling pool was not a great idea in such a small community. He would be rated out before he could walk out the door, plus his escape could not be made quick enough. So, he needed to get money the honest way. Someone around here had to be willing to pay him for a job- just enough to get some crackers or bride a ride with. The moon was making its appearance and the bar would be his best bet. In a town like this it was bound to have every inhabit inside. Slinging his bag over his shoulder Sam headed for the bar his shaggy hair and tall frame swaying in the wind. His hazel eyes peeked around him taking in the shadow's, hackles rising at an odd uncomfortable feeling as his hand slipped over the doorknob and pulled. Letting laughter and a golden glow chase them away.

Sam almost rolled his eyes when every head turned at his entrance. Muttering sarcastically under his breath he said, "I so did not expect that…" as he slid onto a bar stool in the corner.

The customers casually went back to their drinks eyeing him warily as if he was somehow dangerous. Many of them were clearly old farmers who had seen better days. The place was small consisting of the bar, the couple working behind it, and five tables in front. A door behind the bar led to the kitchen, the one behind Sam to the bathrooms. After a moment, chatter heightened once more about the corn prices and what little sally was up to now. An older woman her brown hair speckled with grey above her oddly cheery smile and emotionless eyes headed Sam's way.

"Whatcha be wanting son?" She leaned against the bar absentmindedly cleaning a glass.

Sam took a moment to compose himself with the most responsible look possible, "Actually, mam, I was wondering if I could earn my drink," she raised an eyebrow, "I am on my way home from college to visit my father, but all I had went to tuition and his care. So, I was wondering if there were any jobs I could do for a few days just to earn some cash for food and a bus ticket or paying someone for a ride." He looked at her sweetly praying she took him as innocent and sincere. He noticed the man behind the bar had sidled over at the women's beckoning. He had grey hair and a beard covering scrutinizing eyes. The mans big and burly arms leaned on the bar eyeing Sam as if testing the truth of his statement.

Carefully she set down the glass and folded the rag eyes never leaving Sam, "Well, aren't you a gentlemanly fellow. Seems to me your scrawny enough to be harmless, and your too academic looking to play us. Very well, you take an apron and work the rest of tonight and all day tomorrow and I will pay you. Tonight, after the jobs done you come with my Frank and I to our place outside of town. I set you up in the loft. How does that sound?"

With a smile of relief, I took her hand, "Deal Mrs.…"

"Margret, hon, names Margret." She grinned and handed me an apron. Tying it on and placing himself back behind the bar Sam got to work. They watched him carefully as he worked his legs off. More town people arrived and all of them took a large interest in him, but Sam chalked it down to small town gossip.

…Sam turned off the engine as he pulled up outside Fernando's Café for a bite. He still cringed a little at how naive he had been back then. As he thumped into a chair he pondered what might have happened if he had continued trying to get back home. Jess would still be alive, even after all the years her death still stung. Placing his order Sam drummed his fingers on the table ignoring Deans call- he will call a million more times anyway. Besides, it was peaceful to just sit alone with no guilt trips or distractions. Just him and the open road. Sam might have been a bit drunk on the feeling, but he refused to be pulled down. As the food was set before him and his fork was raised Sam remembered the meal at Margret's that night and a certain shy little boy who barely said a word…


	5. Chapter 5

**What Should Never Come to Pass**

…Eventually the town patrons decided the new server was not as interesting as they previously figured. They took the last swig of their drinks left the cash on grimy tables and headed into the deepening night. Sam bustled around in their absence using soupy rags to clean the tables while Margret and Hank tallied the nights pay. As Sam put up the chairs and grabbed a broom they moved on to inventory. Just as he put the supplies away after unclogging the toilet Market jangled the car keys behind him, "Ya all finished kid?"

"Yes mam, I was just putting up the supplies, and tha…" she held up a hand before he could finish.

"No need for that just hang up that apron and meet us out back, and shut off the lights on your way out" she turned tail the door swinging shut behind her.

Sam let out a sigh running dry hands through his longer locks. Starting with the bathrooms Sam shut off the lights. With each click of the switch he felt shivers crawl down his spine. This was a perfectly normal town, right? He stood at the back door in the kitchen, finger posed hesitantly above the switch. The irrational part of his brain, his hunting instinct, seemed to tell him to fear the increasing shadows and grab the nearest shotgun. It had to just be frayed nerves, he reasoned. I mean there was nothing to indicate a, he could barely even think the word, supernatural event. Sam grimaced, the word came through like a sucker punch to the gut. Was it really such a great idea to go…

HONK, Sam nearly jumped out of his skin, but shut off the light without a second through and headed out to Frank and Margret's truck. He never noticed the scribbled face that watched from the backdoor glaring murderously his direction. The form watched the back of Sam's retreating tan coat pointing a scared finger at his back muttering only to the encroaching darkness, "That one". As the truck pulled away Sam enjoyed the smooth fresh smelling leather interior; while the form vanished leaving a faded print on the back doors glass…

…Sam shuddered at the memory of that night. That bar had felt so dang creepy, and he had no clue how he could have ignored the obvious sensing of danger. Ah well, he paid the bill for his meal and headed out to the ranger. He pulled out of the cafes gravel lot back onto the main road eyes searching for a place to rest. Sam absolutely had to be alert when he met Porter. That guy was like an old western frontiers man willing to do anything to save his hide and swing between good and evil like a windblown playground swing. Porter had been just a kid when Sam had first met him, but by the end of their meeting he could tell exactly what type of man he would be. Most importantly, Sam had to blame himself for a little bit of that. After all, he had been less than prepared at the time barely keeping it together. Spotting an old rotting barn and grain bin a little off the road Sam pulled over the bumpy ground parking the Ranger away from prying eyes. It was not the prettiest, but it would do for the few hours of sleep he needed. However, Sam could not help his feeling of unease at the missing presence of Dean. Shaking his head Sam grumbled about the impending meeting with Porter putting him on edge, and settled down to rest…

…Sam was unable to make out much of his surroundings due to the darkness and the extremely annoying whispered argument between Frank and Margret. Honestly, he was too tired to listen, though he knew deep down he should be paying attention. Instead he busied himself with a lose seam in the leather seat. He watched the empty land pass by; acres rising out like dark mountains against the stars as rain pattered against the windows. Lolled to sleep Sam did not notice when the truck rolled off the highway and onto a gravel drive. He never saw Margret slip a ribbon in his pocket or Frank gently draw a sharpie symbol on his hand. Suddenly Sam startled awake to find Margret and Frank exiting the vehicle, "Come on kid, its about time for super" Frank slammed the door.

A bit groggy Sam tumbled out holding onto his bag. The house was a normal farmhouse a little scuffed with age. A few yard lights illuminated scraggly grass and droopy flowers. The barn laid off to the side surrounded by trees, almost covered by them, no lights illuminated that building. A slight feeling of unease formed in Sam's gut and the little boy that suddenly appeared on the porch did not help matters. The boy was skinny with clean cut black hair and clear warm eyes that calculated each move. He held a lantern aloft casting a silent glow to match the gaze he turned their way. The boy was way too pale and in the lantern light his cloths were clean, but too big for him. He appeared to shake a tiny bit as if nervous or shy. When Sam tried to meet his eyes, the kid glanced at his feet. There was a contradiction here that Sam could not place.

Margret had disappeared inside and Frank stood next to the boy, "Stephan, greet our guest and go set up the barn would ya" he nodded heading my way.

Sam decided to be friendly since the kid was obviously a bit uncertain of the situation; he may even be abused by the looks of it. "Hi Stephan, my names Sam…"

"Do I care" he didn't flinch just stared at him and moved on toward the barn letting the darkness swallow him up.

"Okay…" not shy then, he thought, Stephan has some steal in him.

"Kid! Come on inside before you catch a cold" Shuddering he turned toward the door and the light spilling out. Something was definitely wrong. his hunters' instincts were going wild and that creepy kid did not help. Sam considered running right then and there. He really did, but at the same time where would he run to? So, taking a deep breath to gather his wits he headed inside vowing to be more aware.


	6. Chapter 6

**Time Out…**

Dean was in a complete panic, and nothing could calm him down except Sam's dimpled grin, "Dammit" he muttered. It felt like a massive pit had opened at his feet and sooner rather than later it would swallow him whole. He knew dramatics weren't his style, but try telling that to the scared little boy trapped forever inside. The snowdrifts flew by their arches blending in with the grey sky crisp as autumn leaves white as his knuckles. Sam was somewhere out there, and Dean had absolutely no clue where. Taking a few deep breaths seemed to calm him. He would be of no use to Sammy amped up like he was. Someone had to have a calm head, and maybe that would have to be him. Suddenly, Dean pulled over to the side of the road tires slipping a bit on the downy snow. Flinging himself out of the car Dean surveyed the town below. He forced himself to think through the options ignoring the twitching of his hands and the blurriness in his eyes. Sam was on foot, and most likely had headed to the nearest town hoping to hotwire a car.

Where was he going though? Why didn't he come get him? Sure, they had… had… it wasn't even an argument! No words were said! Dean's shoulders sagged. Maybe that's the point, no words were said, "Dammit!" He really needed to get ahold of himself. Dean choked back a sob realizing how alone he truly was. Normally he would have called Bobby by now, but that clearly wasn't an option. He could track Sam's phone! Gleefully he headed for the trunk pulling out the supplies to do so. Sam had specifically made them after Dean's failure to locate Sam in a somewhat timely manner a few months back. Sam still vehemently refused to touch anything flammable. Grinning like a nut he whipped out the machine and pressed GO. After a few moments the screened flashed up its robotic message _Unable to detect signal._ Dean nearly crushed the equipment, Sam had his phone signal bouncing off so many towers it was impossible to tell the source stream. Shaky fingers wrapped up the equipment and closed the trunk.

Despite the tinge of pink rising on his cheeks Dean leaned once more against the Impala's door pale hands in thin pockets. What could, should, he have said? Sighing in frustration Dean brokenly muttered, "Dammit Sammy, at least be in one piece when I find you." He could not help but picture Sam's broken and beaten body with hazel eyes pleading for a big brother to save him. Then there was the note to consider, a call from an old friend, who could that be? Something in Dean's gut told him this old friend was nowhere near trustworthy. Reluctantly Dean leaned back up against the passenger door frame staring over the town below trying to decipher the newest riddle he had never wanted. Suddenly, like a strike of lightning he pushed himself away from the car grinning, below him at the bottom of the hills bend was the Rusty Tin Inn. Somehow, call it what you will, he knew Sam had snagged a car from there. It was the closest place within walking distance and no good citizen, he cringed a little, would stay there. No doubt it would be the easiest place to get a car from. With renewed purpose Dean slid into the driver's seat rejoicing at the rumble of baby's engine. It was time to find his brother before he did something that would kill them both.


	7. Chapter 7

**Tell Me There is An End…**

Sam woke to bright morning sunshine and one heck of an aching back. Sitting up he mumbled under his breath, which needed a mint, "I'm getting too old for this." There was no one to witness the slight smile that crossed his weary face when he considered what Dean would say.

In fact, he could almost hear it now, "Aw Sammy, you know were gonna go out with bang long before your hair turns grey… besides using that rocket launcher in back will be one hell of a way to go." He felt a pang of guilt at not bringing Dean in on whatever Porter needed him for, but he honestly had never told dean about the original case fearing his reaction. The screech of cars on the interstate jerked him out of his musings. Grumbling he crawled back into the driver's seat chuckling to himself. Sure, he would be more aware. Even now he shook his head in exasperation about the pickle he had gotten himself into. Using the rearview mirror, he smoothed his hair back into place and consulted a map. He should reach Thief River Falls by midafternoon.

Munching idly on a granola bar Sam pulled out into 'traffic'. He rolled down the windows and enjoyed the offered breeze, despite its coldness. He smiled at the acres of flat fields, grinning at the cattle and tractors working against the white background. As he had years prior, he ignored the slight feeling of unease deep in the primal part of his gut. Some things were better left secret… right? He thought of Porter, wondering what he might look like now. Wondering what that boy had become. Turning on his left-hand blinker and accelerating past a slow maroon minivan, one with a stick figure family on the back window, he considered the possibility that this emergency call was a trap. The possibility that Dean would find his rotting corpse in an abandoned basement. Dean would never forgive him if that happened. Death by kidnapping was one thing, but death by giving yourself on a silver platter to the kidnapper another. Well, stupid is as stupid does.

Suddenly a sign leaped out from behind a grain bin, "Dead Man's Trail ends here". Thirsty and running low on gas Sam pulled into the next rest stop. He had been weaving along the river's edge for awhile now, and the sun had risen to an apex. The place was mostly deserted. Feeling mildly guilty he dug around the seats searching for loose change. Armed with five bucks worth he straightened up, closed the truck door, twirled the keys, and looked around. Behind the rest area the river gurgled. A family of four, bundled up like marshmallows, lounged on a rusty picnic table their dog chasing a squirrel. The building itself had certainly seen better days and Sam cringed considering how smelly the urinals will no doubt be. Underneath the shady overhand a couple vending machines rested, fingers crossed nothing was out of date. It seemed himself and the family were the only occupants of this dilapidated rest stop. Steeping over ice packs and wading through a none shoveled sidewalk Sam headed for the machines. Change clanged and his tea dropped with a thump. Snagging a packet of crackers, he turned…

"Shit! What the…"

"Sir! Please help us, please!" A child of about five stared into Sam's face tears streaming like a waterfall. The child sniffed, and gazed up with watery blue eyes his blond hair ruffled messily upon his head. The child's cloths were ratty and torn. Mud or blood stained the cuff of his faded jeans. A nasty bruise lined his cheek. A bit shaky Sam took a step back eyes flashing anxiously around.

"What… what's wrong bud?" His truck was still there baking under the warm winter sun, and it hit Sam that he could no longer hear the dog barking. Plus, the kids cloths were too light for this weather. Sam was face to face with another child ghost. In reality he shouldn't be scared, but after what happened with Porter last time… The child cocked his head making a jagged scar on his neck more visible.

"You have to help us… please, you have… to… help… us… find the end." With a flicker the child disappeared leaving Sam standing alone clutching his tea and crackers. He shuddered as the dog barked again, and the family broke out in belly laughter. On weakened knees Sam made his way back to the truck sliding inside and depositing his snacks on the passenger seat. Pressing his forehead against the steering wheel Sam let a tear fall. Turning the key, he drank in the engines rumble rising his head slowly. Pulling out of the rest stop he noticed the small family packing up. Their youngest child calling the dog who ran over excitedly. Merging back onto the highway he caught a flicker near the river's edge, Sam remained firm of course despite the glare.


	8. Chapter 8

**Authors Note:**

Thank you for the reviews and all of you who have taken time to read my story. I hope you enjoy it! I apologize for the long wait, after getting back from my semester abroad in Mexico college got just a teeny bit busier. Anyhow, Thank you again! Any comments are welcome, even constructive criticism! I hope you all have an amazing week!

 **Reunion**

Sam was no fool, he was dense at times, stubborn to the point of illogical, but never a fool. Sure, he had his moments of doing foolish things, okay, idiotic things, but it was always in the name of the greater good. It was always something that he felt would save others. Sure, sometimes he was misled and delusional, but never foolish… except for that one time. Shivering like a chihuahua that needed to pee Sam felt the cold deep in the marrow of his bones. The child's sudden appearance had shaken him more than he wanted to admit. The glare gave him the chills. He was half expecting smoke to start spewing from the trucks hood any second now. It was as if he was in that barn again. The door locked, and surrounded by dead children whose anguish was palpable. The package of crackers crinkled as he slipped one out. It tasted like sandpaper on his tongue. In perhaps only minutes he would be face to face with Porter. Sam only wished Dean where here with him, but he knew Dean was not far behind. No way Dean would listen to Sam's note. He was scouring the country looking for him at this very moment, right?

A car horn blared and Sam flipped on the confident switch. He passed many houses and a few businesses. Traffic had picked up as he reached the square. Sam drove around it noticing the people milling about with shopping bags for small boutiques. He noticed a meat shop and pictured Deans comments. He drove a few blocks up before parking at a less hectic location. On a Saturday afternoon with the sun shining in winter, the place was packed. Walking down the sidewalk he smiled generously at those he passed. One little girl, a blue and orange polka dot scarf wrapped about her neck, gave him an adorable grin. Giving a hesitant wave in response he continued on. The park in the squares center was quiet this time of year. Further on signs pointed toward the famous bridge and a walking path which branched directly off the square, he could hear the water gurgling. Somehow Sam knew this was where he should head, but not before stopping for some cheese dip at that meat place. Prize in pocket Sam found a bench by the water. He noted how odd it seemed that very little ice had accumulated. Then a strange thought crossed his mind… why winter? At that moment, watching a loon dive to the depths, Sam caught a flicker out of the corner of his eye. He turned and there, walking his way with a smug grin was none other than Stephan Porter. Stiffening Sam took the kid in.

The kid still wore that too powerful for this planet expression. His once clear warm eyes where cold and hard where as his face looked like he came from a California beach. His black hair lay shaggy upon his angular face. Sam huffed; his cloths were still too baggy. Yet, Porter wore an expression that showed his wisdom. It warned anyone to back off because he meant business, and that steel was now staring straight at Sam Winchester, and Sam felt himself spiraling into inky depths…

… The inside of the bar owners' home, Margret and Frank, funny he seemed to have momentarily forgotten, was crisp and clean with a hint of Autumn warmth. It was small with a few hooks for coats in the entry and stairs almost immediately leading up along with a shorter set down. To his left was a kitchen with a small dining table. To his right lay a living room with a bath room branching from there. Margret wasted no time in ushering Sam to the table while Frank placed the dishes. Sam felt oddly fuzzy, and he began to get scared. On instinct his hand reached for his phone only to find it missing. However, something cloth like kissed his fingertips. At that point Frank was droning on about airplanes, while Margret scooped up his plate. All Sam could do was smile drunkenly, shout Sweet Herbal Iced Tea in his head, and ask, "What about Stephan?"

There was a lull in the conversation, as if time stood still. Sam was rooted suddenly unable comprehend anything besides the sound of the blood marching through his veins, "What about me?", and suddenly the world was focused again. A flicker of wrath passed across Margret and Franks faces as Stephan placed the lantern on the table with a thud. Heaping his plate, the pale kid repeated, "What about me?"

Forcing a kind smile Margret sweetly responded, "Nothing son"

"Sure, you got any sour cream?" Frank rolled his eyes as Stephan chewed loudly and sarcastically. Sam just took a breath. He was perplexed since as soon as Stephan had entered the room Sam had gained the use of his senses once more. This too pale skinny kid had literally just saved his bacon. He was unsure what from, but he knew deep inside that he had. Eyes peeled; hand shaky Sam reached for his water glass momentarily considering that they might be poisoning him. Weirdly Stephan reached out at the same time clumsily toppling the water pitcher whose content spilled all over Sam's hand. Sam yelped and pushed away from the table as water dripped to the floor, Margret practically growled while Franks glare shot toward Stephan.

"Oops, sorry! Let me help you!" Stephan practically flew across the table gripping Sam's shoulder possessively, "I'll help him, mom, don't worry about a thing." Before Sam could protest Stephan had him out the door and into the black hole of a yard, Sam didn't notice the inky black mark smudged on his hand…


End file.
